Jim might have arrived at the ancestors of Jerry Duprey with one question, but he was sure of one thing. Jeane Dupree had apparently inherited her land, so perhaps Janet was right on target and didn't even realize it.
Chances were too Janet was going to take her own sweet time in telling the rest of the story.
So far she had proved coincidence can exist.
Suddenly Janet's voice trailed off, and then she looked into his eyes and said bluntly: "Smith, if you're an author, I'm the Statue of Liberty!"
Her eyes had little lights snapping in them. "In the library I asked you about a book that has never been written by an author who never was. Before we go on with your history lesson, why don't you try answering my question.
Who the hell are you?"
Caught off guard, he thought it wise to keep his thoughts about her glib recital to himself.
She was reeling it off far too well, and he needed more of the history lesson, but the only way he could keep it coming his way was to give her a good, believable answer: the truth.
"My name is really Jim Smith," he said. "I come from Chicago. You are correct. I am not an author. As I told Mr. Reese awhile ago, I work for a firm of private investigators. Besides walking into one large hurricane, I tramped into a big fat mystery in the Grand Manor, while looking for the heir to said hotel."
He gave her his most earnest look. "You would never believe how I got from Chicago to Bay St. Louis, unless I went into every sordid little detail. I will at length later, if you insist.
All this is beside the point. Whatever goes on here is probably related to something you know, especially since you have researched the buried treasure legend. I could probably find out a lot more if I had time to ramble through a couple of dozen books, but I don't have the time and I do have you."
Janet gave a questioning look, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with the truth. Then she said, "I understand Mrs. Benning who owned the hotel is dead." Jim moved his head in agreement.
"She just plain died of old age?" Janet asked.
He shook his head. "I would say she did not, but that's only supposition. You'll have to take my word for it. That's another reason I am trying to find out what has been going on here."
"Mrs. Benning was one of my customers recently," Janet added factually. "She stopped by last week and asked if I had any books on United States coins. She checked out an edition of Coin Collector's Guide, but she never returned it. I was hoping to get it back from her before I heard she had died."
Jim interrupted, "Your name is really Wharton?"
She nodded. "My father was Sam Wharton.
He came here from Boston in the early 1950s."
Then she smiled. "He probably robbed a bank in Boston before he left. He was a crusty character with a will of his own."
"I can believe that!" Jim announced, looking at her firm chin.
Janet started to speak again, when suddenly Lena and Aunt Annie were at their side. Aunt Annie had fully recovered her faculties. She put her hand on his shoulder before he could get up. "Now, Charlie," she said, "There is no use in getting hysterical. In a few hours the hurricane will go north." Lena nodded her head. "Yes, in a few hours the hurricane will go north." Just like a parrot, except she emphasized the word north, as if she disliked the thought of anything going in that direction.
But a parrot would hardly reach for the bottle and drink without batting an eye. This she did and passed the bottle to Aunt Annie who, it seemed, could drink straight whiskey as well as Camilles. Aunt Annie HAD recovered her faculties.
Lena looked coyly at Janet and then at Jim.
"My, my, hurricanes make strange friends.
What on earth have you two been talking about?"
He didn't have to answer because the front door blew in just as she finished the last word of her question.
The rattan furniture took off into the dining room, and the table and cards followed. Jim yelled, "Get into the bar, all of you", and grabbed the lantern before it took flight with the furniture. The lobby was empty before the words were out of his mouth. Hurricanes not only make strange friends, but they put wings on feet.
All very well for everyone except him. Much as he disliked the man, he had to deal with Mr.
Leddon. Dodging a chaise lounge, he ducked behind the desk, which seemed firmly anchored to the floor. Keeping the lantern reasonably upright, he looked into the little room back of the desk, expecting to have to carry Leddon out. Leddon was nowhere in sight. Probably out the back door at the back of his room. Jim didn't blame him. The room looked like a cell. A sagging cot and a chair were the only furniture.
He gave up on Leddon for two reasons: he couldn't chase the man down, and he didn’t have suicidal traits. Jim raced across the lobby toward the bar and somebody's hunk of tin roofing sailed through the front door of the hotel just behind him. If he had been a second later, half of him would be gone one way and half the other. Bertha won his total respect at that particular moment. She'd been close before.
The Tribbles and the bride and groom probably were safer in their bedrooms, separated from the bar by one hurricane. The Tribbles had each other. The bride and groom had each other. Jim had the whole goofy crew, except for the elusive Beau Mitchell, Jerry Duprey, and Leddon. At the moment he could get along very well without them.
East of the bar was what used to be called a sun porch. It had windows on the south, but the east wall was solid which formed protection for the bar. The bar, he hoped wouldn't get the pilings and branches, or a boat that might have been left on the beach.
There was a door between the sun porch and the lobby. He yelled at his crew, and it took all of them to close it. Then everybody trooped silently into the bar. He followed and looked them over.
He had a captive audience. They were all standing there acting like he was going to lead them in Onward Christian Soldiers or Nearer My God to Thee just before the ship was sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Even George didn't look too tough. He was blowing and going from pushing shut the door.
Instead of bursting into song, Jim waved at the table laden with bread, beans, and cheese.
"Eat, drink, and…" he started to say, and changed his mind. It didn't seem tactful.
"Drinks are on the house," he announced pleasantly. "We have some waiting to do. At the moment I would say we are relatively safe." He wasn't so sure about that, but it sounded good.
His crew relaxed. Apparently they trusted him. Aunt Annie sighed. Lena echoed her sigh, you could hear them both over the wind.
The drunk on the bench had raised his head when they came in. Now he flopped back and went to sleep, happily unaware of Bertha's rising anger. Jim envied him. But, somehow he was comparing bucking a hurricane with getting used to driving a nitroglycerin truck.
You could get used to a hurricane the same way.
Anyway, he did have something on his mind beside Bertha. He had been listening avidly to all the fancy history of the Gulf Coast, and admiring Janet Wharton's eyelashes. She had said, "But…but…" about the time Aunt Annie and Lena moved in on them and the whole lobby took off. He wanted to know where she was going from there, but that wasn't all. Her recital was very well done, too well done for him.
He found Janet Wharton sitting in a corner by herself. Just the way he wanted her. He set the lantern on the bar, walked over to Janet, leaned over, and whispered in her ear, "Think up a good answer, Sis, in about twenty seconds!
That's while I get us a drink. You had it all down pat. Why?" She gave him a half scared look and he relented. "I just want the rest of it, o.k.?"
Everybody in the room seemed to have finally resigned themselves to waiting out the storm.
Aunt Annie curled up on the bench across from the long, tall drunk. Lena sat next to her, staring into space. Jim carried two glasses over to the corner where Janet sat. For some reason she seemed amused. She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look, and then had the grace to look away.
"Now" he said, plunking himself down beside her. "Give me the poop, Lady. I know there must be something you haven't told me yet. I can feel it in my private investigator bones.
Let's stop playing games. Maybe the waves were lapping at your feet. Maybe they weren't.
But, how come you arrived at the hotel? The Civil Defense guys said they were moving the diehards to the schoolhouse. And don't tell me you were just coming after your library book."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with his hand over her mouth.
"Before you fill me in, I want you to know your speech sounded like it had been recently recited. It sounded like it came out of the local history book or newspaper. Could it be possible somebody else provided your story??
She stared at him. "How did you know?"
Then she said, "All this didn't come out of a history book. A lot of it came from my father.
He was my source for legends. "
"What about the waves lapping at your feet?"
"They WERE lapping at my feet, really. The men with Civil Defense were quite annoyed.
They suggested I look for shelter elsewhere. So I did. But I came here because I am naturally curious. You gave me that author routine. I could hardly swallow that." She looked around the room. "Also, this is supposed to be the highest spot for miles. Everyone knows this place survived hurricanes before." She sounded dubious about the present.
She hadn't answered entirely, but he knew she would get to the point eventually. "Did you know Mrs. Benning personally, other than just as a library visitor?" She shook her head.
"Before I spoke of him, did you ever hear of Jerry Duprey?" Again, she shook her head, but a light flickered in her eyes.
"I guess I should have said Jerome Duprey, because I assume that is his name. Of course he is the rightful heir to this charming establishment, or what's left of it. You started to tell me something when Bertha took over the lobby. There must be more to your story, something is missing." He looked at her intensely.
She had been holding out on him. She replied quickly, "My father was a newspaperman. He worked as a stringer for the Times Picayune. It was my father who did all the original research about the New Orleans Mint. It was also my father who spent literally years putting the story together. And it was my father who had his story entitled How the Mint Was Robbed published in the newspaper.
Janet paused, and then dropping her eyes toward the floor, she added: "He was also the reporter who interviewed the old Choctaw Indian who had witnessed two killings in 1861.
My father knew both stories were linked. He knew the mint was robbed, and he also knew where the money was buried. He only published the first story. The other he kept for me!"